


Conditions

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: The conditions of any relationship are always subject to change. Set in 1994/1995.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Curious

**Author's Note:**

> Very old story that I wrote simply because I needed more reluctant, submissive Lars in my life, heh. I never finished it and I still have old snippets here and there of what I wrote back then. Hopefully I still have my act together with writing and can give this story the justice it deserves and finish it.

They weren’t there last week. New scratches joined the ones over James’s hip—the ones that ran down past the waistband of his jeans. These looked fresh. A little pink. And not as rough or mean-looking as the old ones. But they were scratches nonetheless, and Lars just had to know why. He always had to know why when it came to James.  
  
“Hunting accident,” James said.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Nicked myself against a branch.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Wasn’t paying attention.”  
  
The week before, James said it was from poison ivy. He wasn’t paying attention then, that’s why his skin looked so red. Lars could’ve brought it up. Could’ve said ‘what about that, uh,’ or the week _before_ that one, when he saw a bruise on James’s shoulder, and then the week before _that_ one, with the bites on James’s neck—but that meant admitting he watched James shirtless in the dressing room, more than he was comfortable to admit even to himself, so he ignored the urge to poke and prod James further and said, “Better watch out next time. I don’t want—”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’m just saying.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
And Lars left him be after that. Kirk did his push-ups. Jason went off to bound around the arena, psych himself up for the show. James put on a shirt. Sleeveless white tank top. The usual.  
  
He could still see that bruise on the shoulder. Still a little purple.  
  
His dick twitched.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
The show went well. England loved their Metallica. One show down, one more to go in Donington, and then it was off to Canada. To the middle of nowhere with a name Lars couldn’t bother remembering the name of because it was that damn weird. Kirk memorized the name though.  
  
Lars took his shower last. James bounded out first with Jason, the two of them babbling about this and that. Things Lars had no idea about (and hated that, deep down, he wished he did). Jason dressed first, left for the hotel with an over-the-shoulder promise to see James later at the bar. James waved over his own shoulder, and then busied himself getting packed and dressed.  
  
And there was that bruise. Those scratches.  
  
All the wet skin too. Wet hair.  
  
James’s hands went to the towel—  
  
“Lars!”  
  
He startled and looked away.  
  
Kirk stood in front of him, dressed and cross-armed and frowning. “Are we?”  
  
“Are we what?”  
  
“Are we hanging out tonight or not?”  
  
“Uh.” Lars glanced to the side.  
  
James, underwear on, fished out his jeans from his cubby.  
  
_Dammit._ He eyed Kirk again. “Yeah, sure.”  
  
They spent the night at the club Kirk liked to frequent in London. Lots of easy women, good music and a full bar. He flirted with a cute blond most of the night while Kirk took up most of their booth with three women. They petted his bare chest framed by his open button-down shirt, took turns kissing him, served him drinks after drinks, played with his new dreadlocks, and Kirk encouraged them to do more. Wooed them into following him back to his hotel room. And they bought it, of course. They usually did.  
  
“You coming?” Kirk said in their hotel lobby later, a chick in both arm.  
  
Lars shook his head no.  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Not feeling so good.”  
  
Kirk blinked. “Huh.”  
  
“So.”  
  
“You looked fine earlier.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” He headed for the elevators. “Have a good night.”  
  
The girls gave him sad smiles and little waves goodbye. And by the way Kirk looked at him, Lars knew he’d get an interrogation later. Kirk was an observer, and most likely, saw some things Lars didn’t want him to see. But he’d be ready. Lars was a good-enough bullshitter.  
  
In the privacy of his own hotel room, he finally breathed easier. He also let loose those held-back thoughts and images, the ones that fluttered around like locusts in the back of his mind, ready to consume him. And he let them. His clothes fell to the ground in his wake, walking to his suitcase, as each fucked up image popped up, one by one. Of leather straps and red ball gags, squeezing hands and squeezed flesh. Cuffs and chains and whips and more leather.  
  
He whipped the suitcase top open. Shoved his clothes out of the way and onto the floor.  
  
Inside laid a black VHS tape, and black grip tape.  
  
Liquid courage came first, straight from the mini bar. Enough to calm his nerves down and stop the voice of doubt and reason from taking over. The one that said _what the hell are you doing Ulrich, you can’t do this, what’s wrong with you._ The same one that told him to put that electrical tape back every time he swiped one away from the gaffers. The same voice that told him to go fuck some chick or go focus on something more productive. Something normal. The same damn voice that told him to look away when he first saw James’s scratches and bruises. And each time he promised himself, that’s the last time, I won’t do it again. No more.  
  
The TV flicked on.  
  
He pushed the VHS into the player.  
  
Not this time.  
  
Lars settled back onto the bed, tape in hand. On the screen, the video began at the point he enjoyed starting at: the boy of the story, blindfolded, gagged and cuffed to all four posts of the bed, helpless and waiting for his Master.  
  
In came that Master. Tall, muscled stomach, blond hair, bare foot and bare-chested. The leather pants hid nothing.  
  
The tape made a loud _shlick_ sound. He pulled a good arms-length worth.  
  
The Master ran a hand down the boy’s naked, taut stomach. Down to his cock.  
  
His teeth cut into the adhesive.  
  
Muffled whimpers filled the room, from the TV screen. The boy’s hips tilted up into Master’s hand. His thin arms and legs jerked in their bonds.  
  
Lars wrapped the tape around his ankles.  
  
The Master chuckled.  
  
More muffled whimpers.  
  
More tape ripped. _Shlick._ One strip.  
  
“You like that?” the Master said.  
  
The boy nodded.  
  
Lars leaned back, his head propped up by the pillows.  
  
Over his toes, the TV screen glowed. On that screen, the Master bent down to kiss the boy’s quivering chest. Stroked him nice and slow. Kissed his way to the left nipple. The pierced nipple.  
  
He pushed the tape over his mouth.  
  
Close-up of the Master’s teeth sinking into that nipple.  
  
His muffled moan matched the boy’s.  
  
More close-ups of the Master’s teeth. Of marred skin.  
  
The nipple turned red. Bloomed a little purple.  
  
Lars pinched his own left nipple in one hand. Jerked himself off with the other. In time with the Master’s hand, jerking off that boy.  
  
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. His arms weren’t supposed to be loose. He wasn’t supposed to be seeing anything…  
  
Close-up of the boy’s red face. His thin arms and legs, jerking in his cuffs, making them rattle.  
  
His bound ankles rubbed together.  
  
His hand moved faster.  
  
Not enough.  
  
The Master lifted his head up, lips forming a nice smirk.  
  
Blue eyes. He had blue eyes.  
  
“Good boy.”  
  
And the scene quickly changed. He saw himself in that TV screen, naked and helpless, gagged and blindfolded and arching into the Master’s touch—hissing and whimpering when Master’s nails dug into his skin too deep, when Master grabbed a whip and rained the leather down all over his bound body. Welts rose on his skin from the whip marks, bruises formed on his thighs, Master’s teeth bit all over his chest, all over his bound arms and legs, and when Master sunk into him balls deep, the blindfold came off finally, and he saw James there, smirking down at him, a hand closing around his throat and hisses, “Scream, boy.”  
  
He obeyed, coming all over his hand.  
  
The tape muffled his scream well-enough.  
  
His messy hand flopped to his side once finished. His stomach quivered with each heavy breath.  
  
Sweat trickled down his burning cheeks, down to his chin.  
  
He heard the Master’s grunts. The boy’s muffled squeals.  
  
Lars’s head flopped to the side, his eyes closing for a little while.  
  
When he felt ready enough to move, the movie had moved onto the orgy scene he liked. Bunch of boys crawling around in leather, serving various Masters and Mistresses, fucked and used all around the room in different positions. Lars enjoyed the sight for a bit, until the Master of the movie came back on screen, with a close-up of his damn blue eyes, and he fumbled around with shaky fingers for the remote.  
  
The worst part about this was taking off the tape after. He took his time removing the strip from his mouth first, then cutting it off his ankles second. No matter how many times he did this, it still hurt, and always left residue adhesive on his lips. He had no other options though. Gaffer tape wouldn’t raise eyebrows at the airport, should he get checked, nor would it tip off anyone else, should someone come into his room and he left his bag open.  
  
_You shouldn’t feed it anyway_ , came that voice again. He popped out the VHS, slipped it back into its case and into the bag, along with the gaffer tape. _It’s an addiction. You can’t keep doing this. You have to stop it._  
  
“Okay.” He zipped up the bag. “No more.”  
  
The next night, he taped his knees together.  
  
The following night after, he taped his mouth, shoved his face into the pillows and finger-fucked himself.  
  
The night after that, he taped his wrists together, and forced himself to come by humping the pillows. He didn’t come at all, and it was a bitch cutting the tape off later, but it wasn’t about getting off. It was the powerlessness. The desperation. Helpless and weak and exposed for what he really was, deep down. What he was ashamed to admit, but he wanted it. He needed it.  
  
Each time, he said, “No more.”  
  
Each time, there was James.  
  
_I have to stop this._ He stared out the window of his private van, taking him to the hollowed grounds of Donington. _It’s_ James _, for fuck’s sake. Go fantasize someone else._  
  
James was already there when he arrived, chatting away with Pepper—and a brand new purple bite on his neck. A really big one.  
  
_Shit._  
  
Pepper noticed him first. He grinned, waved him over. “Hey Lars!”  
  
James looked over his shoulder.  
  
Lars stared.  
  
Not just one bite. Two.  
  
A big bite, and a smaller bite.  
  
_Oh_ shit _._  
  
James frowned. “You okay?”  
  
“Uh.” Lars cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah. M’fine.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Yeah.” He turned away, wiping a hand over his hot face. “Yeah…”  
  
Their trailer for the festival, housing their rehearsal equipment, thankfully was empty. A quick jerk off later, he emerged from inside, and slipped easier into work-mode. And stayed in that mode for most of the afternoon.  
  
Interview came after interview, followed by dinner time and getting dressed and limber for the gig. To his relief (and his chagrin), James wasn’t there when he entered the trailer.  
  
But Kirk was. “Hi Lars.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“How’re you?”  
  
“Good, you?”  
  
“Oh I’m fine.”  
  
And then came that look. The one from a few nights ago.  
  
Lars turned his back to him. Rummaged through his cubby for his drumming shorts and socks and sneakers.  
  
Once found, he unzipped and pushed off his jeans and underwear, kicking them to the side.  
  
He slipped on the shorts. Turned back around, keeping his head down. Sat on the bench, toed off his sandals, and reached for his socks.  
  
Kirk’s feet came into view.  
  
“You look at James a lot lately.”  
  
Lars fixed his sock over his left foot.  
  
The right foot.  
  
He reached for his shoes.  
  
Kirk stepped closer.  
  
“Why are you looking at him like that?”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“You know.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
He slipped the first shoe on. “I’m worried, that’s all.”  
  
“Worried.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“He looks fine to me.”  
  
“He’s had a few accidents lately. You know that.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Kirk’s feet turned. Walked out of his vision.  
  
Lars slipped the second shoe on. He bent down to tie the laces.  
  
From close by, Kirk said, “That’s funny.”  
  
“What is?”  
  
“I didn’t know worrying for someone meant wanting to fuck them.”  
  
Lars froze.  
  
He slowly sat up.  
  
Kirk leaned against the wall ahead of him, cross-armed, dreadlocks over his shoulder, with that damn look. The one that meant all business and no bullshit. None. Not even from Mr. Bullshitter himself. He was there for answers, and he was going to get them, at any cost and any price. Lars saw that look a few times. Each time, Kirk got his way. He recognized it well himself. Kirk learned it from himself, after all.  
  
“What do you want?” Lars asked.  
  
“Why the sudden interest in James?”  
  
“Why do you care?”  
  
“So you _do_ want to fuck him—”  
  
“ _Kirk._ ”  
  
“Oh come on, Lars.” Kirk pushed away from the wall. “It’s me. Who the fuck am I going to tell? James? Pfft.” He took the seat next to Lars. “I’m just curious is all.”  
  
“And you’re curious because?”  
  
“Because James is staring back.”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“At least, I think so. I don’t know. Who can tell with him.”  
  
His heartbeat sped up. “Is he, or isn’t he?”  
  
“I guess. It’s not as obvious as you, that’s for sure. Hell, he might just be wondering why you’re staring at him so much.”  
  
The floor gave under his feet. The room sunk and closed in around him.  
  
_James saw me. James saw…_  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“So...” Kirk smirked. “Is something going on between—”  
  
Lars stood up.  
  
“Aw come on, Lars.”  
  
He fetched his robe off the floor.  
  
“Talk to me.”  
  
His hands fumbled with the door knob.  
  
“Lars—”  
  
The door slammed behind him.  
  
He rushed past people. Bands. Technicians. Managers and fans and interviewers and people with cameras and microphones and _there’s Lars Ulrich! Can we—_ and he walked faster. Ignored the weird stares, the ‘hey’ and ‘watch it.’  
  
He wasn’t supposed to see.  
  
James wasn’t supposed to see.  
  
_He doesn’t know anything,_ came the rational voice, the voice of reason and doubt, the voice that always came at the worst of times. _Kirk doesn’t know anything. You can still stop it. End it for good. Before you fuck up. Before James finds the truth._  
  
He slowed down.  
  
Up ahead, neon lights shined from the festival backstage bar-tent.  
  
One of the bar ladies gave him a big smile as he approached. “What can I get for you?”  
  
“Vodka on the rocks.”  
  
“Coming right up.”  
  
It burned good down his throat. He downed it all in one go, slamming it onto the wooden counter and saying, “Another.”  
  
She served him another glass.  
  
And another.  
  
_Don’t get drunk_ , said the damn voice again. _You’ll fuck up the gig, and James’ll get pissed._ And then came the image of angry James, shoving him against the wall, squeezing his throat, snarling over his face, “You fucked up, Ulrich,” and their lips crushed together—  
  
Lars downed the fourth glass.  
  
He slammed it down with one hand, the other palm-down on the counter. He scrunched his whole face tight, inhale, held, and exhaled with a soft, “Fuck.”  
  
His elbows soon landed on the counter.  
  
Lars buried his face into his hands.  
  
His palms muffled another, louder, “ _Fuck._ ”  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Lars’s head jerked up.  
  
He turned to the side.  
  
James stood there, a bottle of Coors in hand.  
  
“Lars?”  
  
“I’m fine.” He turned away.  
  
James blocked his path. “What happened?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Bullshit it’s nothing.”  
  
He elbowed past James.  
  
A strong hand grabbed his forearm, jerking him around—and dragging him away from the bar-tent. Away from the people too.  
  
“James!” He jerked his arm in James’s hold. “Let me go!”  
  
He stumbled along behind James, walking past other trailers, other tents, other bands’s equipment, some dumpsters and festival signs. Until they were in the far, far back, where the chain-length fence separated them from the rest of the festival grounds.  
  
A fence James pushed Lars against.  
  
“Lars—”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong, okay? I’m just not feeling good. I needed a drink. That’s all.” Lars pushed at his chest. “Now let me go. We have a gig. I’m not that drunk. I can play. Okay?”  
  
James’s hands squeezed Lars’s shoulders.  
  
“James.”  
  
The hands squeezed tighter.  
  
Pain shot down his arms. Down his sides.  
  
Down to his dick.  
  
_Shit._ He pushed at James’s chest again. “James.” And again. “Let me go.” The fence squeaked and moved with Lars’s pushes.  
  
James’s fingers pressed harder.  
  
His breath hitched.  
  
His next push was weaker.  
  
“James.” He licked his lips. His cheeks burned. “Let me fucking go. I’m fine.”  
  
“No you’re not.”  
  
One hand left his shoulder. Fingers gripped his chin, in a hold equally as rough and painful. Squeezing his jaw. Pushing at his lips. Forcing his head to tilt up, at him.  
  
“I know you’re not.”  
  
_No._ His head swam. His heartbeat drowned out the crowd. _No, James._ His body felt sluggish, and drugged, and tired. _You can’t…_  
  
James leaned in.  
  
Lars shut his eyes.  
  
Over his own heartbeat, James said, “Tell me later.”  
  
One last squeeze.  
  
Lars gasped in pain.  
  
All sensation and pressure left him. No more heat. No more pain. No more body against his. No arms holding him down.  
  
His shoulders pulsed. His arms tingled, as did his legs.  
  
Lars hooked his weak fingers into the fence behind him.  
  
He took long, deep breaths—inhale, hold, exhale—calming his heartbeat and ceasing the world from spinning any further.  
  
When he felt ready to move, he let go one hand from the fence, untied the sash of his robe, pushed it off one shoulder and looked at it.  
  
Red-and-purple bruise. Right there. Fresh and blossoming over to his neck. Had he not worn the robe, it could’ve been worse. More purple. Maybe a little black.  
  
He brushed his trembling fingers over it.  
  
James bruised him.  
  
James gave him that bruise.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
He took care of his hard dick in a port-a-potty first, before he returned to the trailer and fetched a shirt to wear out of his cubby. A short-sleeve one, big enough to cover the bruises.  
  
Kirk shot him looks during the show, along wiggled eyebrows and know-it-all smirks, but none of those looks held any concern or fear. Which meant Kirk didn’t see what was under the shirt. Kirk still had no idea.  
  
James gave him no looks either. Even when they played together, side-to-side, or James in front of his kit, James met his eye a few times, and he looked at him normal. Like nothing happened before. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
He would’ve chalked it up to fantasy, but the bruises smarted and shot pain up and down his arms the entire gig. James’s bruises.  
  
The show went well. He didn’t screw up too much drumming Disposable, though his shoulders screamed mercy at him by the end.  
  
After the thank yous and bows were finished, they bounded to the trailer, where Lars waited to his shower last. Kirk was already dressed by the time James and Jason emerged, the two of them babbling about what they’re doing once they’re home.  
  
“See you in Canada,” Kirk said, and Lars ignored his devious stare with a half-hearted wave.  
  
He waited a bit more for Jason to dress and leave, and for James to do the same, before he dumped the papers, took off his clothes and slipped into the shower himself.  
  
The right shoulder looked worse than the left—the area, of course, where his old rotary cuff injury was. He angled himself under the hot water so it hit the left side of his body. A long sigh escaped as the water eased away some of the pain there.  
  
Lathering up some soap on the loofa, Lars took his time bathing himself. And there, under the spray, the damn voice of reason and doubt came back, full force, sneering at him, _You’re hurt. You let James hurt you. You_ wanted _him to hurt you. You have to stop this. You can’t let James know—if James doesn’t know already. And even if he does, you can’t let anything happen beyond what transpired tonight. You_ know _you can’t._  
  
He looked at his right shoulder.  
  
Water ran over the bruise, down and over his forearm and collarbones.  
  
_It’s an addiction._  
  
He ran the loofa over the bruise once. Twice.  
  
_It’s wrong. It’s not right._  
  
Lars sighed. He leaned back against the cool tiles.  
  
“Dammit.”  
  
By the time he finished dressing and packing, Lars knew he missed his red-eye flight home. He didn’t need to check his watch, and didn’t really worry. He’d catch the next one tomorrow.  
  
The hotel, luckily, had a room for the night. A suite, one of the last ones available.  
  
He held his right shoulder on the elevator ride up.  
  
Inside, Lars dumped his things near the sofa and headed to bed. He flopped onto his side—the left side—and curled up, pressing his knees to his chest.  
  
His right shoulder kept pulsing.  
  
A _bzz_ rung in his ears.  
  
He stared out into the darkness of the room, at the window, where a small crack in the thick white curtains showed off a lit-up London.  
  
_What is wrong with me?_  
  
Lars shut his eyes.  
  
_What the fuck am I doing?_  
  
Behind the darkness of his lids, James consumed the view.  
  
He curled up into a tighter ball.  
  
“No more,” he whispered.  
  
Lars petted his right shoulder.  
  
_I can’t._  
  
That night, in his dreams, he found himself gagged and cuffed to all four posts of a big, luxurious canopy bed, where he waited for his Master to arrive. And when he did, when Master settled over his helpless body, between his spread legs, and squeezed his chin in his big hand, James whispered, “I know.” Lars waited for the not, the no, the don’t—any other words, but those words. They never came. James whispered again, “I know,” and Lars felt shame. Felt alive. Free and shackled, shattered and whole, all at once.  
  
Everything blurred after that in a mix of pain and pleasure, in bruises and whip marks and bites and who knew what else. The images left him with hard cock and a wet spot on the sheets in the morning.  
  
And as he pushed off the bed, gathered his things and left London behind him, the dream still lingered, like James’s words, like the bruises on his shoulders.  
  
If James knew… if James somehow knew…


	2. Discovery

Between Donington to the weird Canada gig — Tuktoyaktuk, he finally learned how say the name correctly — Lars had five days for his bruises to heal, and to build up his resolve. The time away did well. He survived the three day journey, avoiding James as much as possible, _without_ looking like he was avoiding him. No one picked up on it. Not even Kirk. Especially not James. They were too busy mingling with the locals, mingling with the other bands, to really pay any attention outside the bubble of themselves.  
  
And aside from the fact he played the gig in jeans and felt like he was dying of heat after, Lars ended up enjoying the trip by the time they left. He survived the gig, and achieved his goal of avoiding James. After this, they wouldn’t see each other again until two weeks passed. Then it was off to the Plant in Sausalito again, to narrow down the songs and finish the album. By then, he’d stop thinking of James that way, and everything would be normal. Everything would be fine.  
  
Then, at baggage claim, James fucked it all up. “Let’s meet up tomorrow.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I got some new song ideas.”  
  
“We’re at 18, James.”  
  
“So?”  
  
Lars rolled his eyes. “Fine.”  
  
“How’s noon sound?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Cool. See you tomorrow then.”  
  
“Yeah.” One of his bag popped out onto the carousel. Lars snatched it up by its handle. “See ya.”  
  
He turned around, staring at James’s retreating back. The urge to throw something at him came and went.  
  
On the drive home, two voices yelled on opposite ends of his mind. One berated him over and over, saying _you gave in too easy, what the hell is wrong with you, do you_ want _to fuck this up, call him later and tell him no_. The other just laughed and said, _you do want this, and you know it._  
  
His hands itched at his sides the rest of the day. The phone haunted him. He distracted himself watching movies, reading faxes from Q Prime, driving down to the supermarket to pick up dinner from the deli. But the fact remained. James was coming over tomorrow. James. The guy he _had_ to avoid, because his mind wasn’t in the right frame yet. Two weeks was enough time. A week. Three days even. But twenty-four hours? _Less_ than twenty-four hours?  
  
He laid back on his bed later that evening, staring at the ceiling.  
  
A vision of James came. His breath. Those damn eyes.  
  
His right shoulder pulsed from the memory.  
  
Lars groaned.  
  
 _I am so fucked._  
  
James arrived on time, bearing gifts to his surprise. Taco Bell. “Bought an extra burrito, just in case,” he said, and Lars’s growling stomach confirmed James’s thoughts.  
  
They ate first, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Lars chewed slow. Babbled a lot about Q-Prime, about Burnstein finally getting back to him. “We might have to split this into a double album,” so on and so on. James nodded along here and there. He wasn’t one for business, but James cared a lot when it came to management micromanaging his music.  
  
Music that James wanted to start working on, pronto. “You done yet?”  
  
Lars gestured to the last piece of his burrito.  
  
“Well, hurry up.”  
  
“Fuck you, I’m enjoying my food.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” He gathered up his empty wrappers, standing up and heading to the trash can. “I’ll be in the Dungeon.”  
  
Lars swallowed.  
  
The way James said that.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Uh, yeah.” He kept his attention down at his food. “I’ll be there soon.”  
  
From the corner of his vision, he caught James bent over, rummaging through his fridge for a quick can of beer. He tried not to stare at his ass. He failed. And he kept stared at James’s ass, and his back, and his legs, as he left the kitchen for the basement stairs.  
  
Lars forced himself to take another bite. Chew, swallow, take another bite.  
  
When done, he still lingered at the table. Folded some of the wrapper. Ripped a little piece off. Balled it up between his fingers. Flicked it off.  
  
He could make something else to eat. A sandwich. Peel some fruit.  
  
Maybe call Burnstein again. Ask for another album extension.  
  
Or call Kirk. Invite him over. _James is here, wanna come over and jam?_ Then came the image of Kirk’s damn know-it-all lewd grin, and Lars tossed that idea out quick.  
  
He leaned his elbows onto the table and buried his face into his palms.  
  
 _I. Am. So. Fucked._  
  
Lars found James sitting at the console, tapping a pencil on his lyrics notebook to the beat coming from his headphones. He didn’t seem to notice Lars come in. Didn’t acknowledge him until Lars sat beside him on the console and poked his bicep.  
  
James pushed the cans off his ears. “You finished?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Took you long enough.”  
  
“I needed to eat something else.”  
  
“Of course.” He handed the headphones over to Lars. “I loaded up the first song. Check it out.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
Lars placed them over his ears, folding his arms onto the console. This was safe territory. Music making. Work mode. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that could instigate something regrettable from happening.  
  
He shut his eyes and listened to the intro.  
  
A good beat. Nice tempo.  
  
In came James’s voice. The usual ‘hey hey heeey,’ ‘yeaaah yeah yeah ooh yeah,’ filling in for where the lyrics would be.  
  
It had a similar sound to the rest of the stuff on the album so far. Kinda dark, and sleazy. An easy blues riff, in E-minor.  
  
Lars nodded along.  
  
The nice thing with James’s riffs was how easy he could come up with the right drum riff. He could hear it with the guitar. Bah-duh-bah, bah-duh-bah, tom-cymbal-kick-cymbal. Repeat. Add more kicks. Keep the rhythm slow.  
  
His fingers pushed at the console’s volume.  
  
James sang, _Don’t go looking for snakes…_  
  
He reached for a knob.  
  
Fingertips brushed his.  
  
Lars jerked his hand back.  
  
He tucked his arm back to his chest, folded over the other arm. His head dipped forward, and forward until the cans almost fell off his head, and he pushed a hand up to an ear to keep them on.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
James sang more ‘yeah yeaaah’ and ‘ooh yeah.’  
  
A different riff kicked in. Same slow, sleazy tempo, but a key change. Higher notes.  
  
The fingers of his right hand drummed a beat on the console.  
  
Then came a solo. An attempt at one, anyway. James solo’s differed from the Kirk ones. Not really on the wah and the technicality. More on the emotion. The feeling.  
  
His head thumped along.  
  
Solo fade out. The drums could come in there. A cool break down.  
  
Then James sang, _See you crawliiing…_  
  
Lars’s eyes snapped open.  
  
 _See you falliiing…_  
  
A sharp poke to his bicep.  
  
Lars’s head snapped to the side.  
  
James was staring, and frowning.  
  
He pushed one of the ears off. “What?”  
  
“You’re acting weird.”  
  
“What you do mean ‘weird’?”  
  
“You seem… off.”  
  
“I don’t feel good.” He turned away, back to the audioboard.  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Yes. Really.”  
  
The music drowned out James’s next words. He pushed both his hands over the ears, elbows on the table.  
  
Guitar riffs. Drum riffs. Slow beats and—  
  
A strong hand shoved the headphones off his head.  
  
He snapped at James, “What the fuck?”  
  
“What’re you hiding?”  
  
“I’m not hiding shit.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Fuck this.” He pushed out of his seat. Stomped over to the door.  
  
And with a hand on the knob, Lars heard James ask, “Why do you stare at me?”  
  
He froze stiff.  
  
Faint traces of music came from the discarded headphones.  
  
Lars slowly looked over his shoulder.  
  
James faced him in his chair, hands clasped over his lap. Staring. Measuring.  
  
He hated that damn look.  
  
“It’s just us here,” James said. “So, talk.”  
  
Lars ground his teeth together.  
  
James leaned back. The chair squeaked.  
  
Sitting. Waiting.  
  
Lars turned his head away. His forehead touched the door.  
  
That faint music ended.  
  
Thick silence stuffed up the room.  
  
His hand slowly released the knob.  
  
“We’re friends, right James?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And friends… well, it’s okay, keeping secrets.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
He licked his lips. “So.” Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. “I was wondering.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
Lars finally turned around. His body leaned against the door, fingertips brushing the wood.  
  
“You keeping anything?”  
  
James stared.  
  
And stared.  
  
More silence.  
  
Then, James crossed his legs. Relaxed into his chair more, reclining back and resting his clasped hands onto his bent knees.  
  
“What do you wanna know?”  
  
Lars blinked.  
  
 _That wasn’t supposed to happen._ His lips moved. _He wasn’t—that wasn’t—no. Just._ They formed words, with no voice accompanying. _James wasn’t supposed to—_  
  
James’s eyebrows rose. “Well?”  
  
“…Uh.”  
  
“Only time I’m offering, man. What do you want to know?”  
  
Lars shut his mouth. His hands flexed at his sides.  
  
Then came that voice of reason, telling him, _Go on. Fuck it. Ask him already. Ask him and let him make fun of you and then you can finally move the fuck on._ And this time, he’d listen to it.  
  
“You’ve been in a lot of accidents lately.”  
  
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”  
  
“True.” He swallowed. “But… those marks. The ones on your chest and back.” His voice wavered. “They looked pretty bad.”  
  
“Some of ‘em were. The rest?” James shrugged.  
  
“Like, from animals?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
Lars face grew hot.  
  
James looked so calm. Calm, collected—controlled.  
  
In total control.  
  
“Wh—” Lars coughed. “What, uh. What else?”  
  
“Why do you wanna know?”  
  
Lars managed a meager shrug.  
  
James smirked.  
  
He watched him reach for a can of beer Lars hadn’t seen before, bringing it to his lap, cracking it open. Watched the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed as he downed most of it. How his eyes stayed on his, the entire time.  
  
 _Get out._  
  
James pulled the can away. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips, slow.  
  
His smirking lips.  
  
Lars’s breath hitched.  
  
 _Get. Out._  
  
“I, uh.” Lars’s trembling hand patted the door behind him, seeking out the knob. “I think I’m gonna—”  
  
“I fuck ‘em.”  
  
His hand slipped down the wood, hanging loose against his side.  
  
James shrugged. “Or they fuck me. Depends.”  
  
He watched James drink some more beer, all casual, like this was a normal conversation. Like he didn’t just admit something huge—very huge. Like it was all just a big…  
  
Lars lifted a shaky hand to his face.  
  
A joke.  
  
One big joke.  
  
He rubbed at his eyes, his hot cheeks. His shoulders relaxed, as did the rest of his body, and his insides.  
  
 _You asshole._ He rubbed his jawline, the back of his neck. _You fucking asshole._  
  
“Good one, James.” Lars chuckled. “Very fucking funny.”  
  
When he looked at James again, he wasn’t smirking anymore. He wasn’t laughing either.  
  
James was frowning.  
  
James was… annoyed?  
  
“You think it’s funny?”  
  
“Well, yeah. I mean, you, and that? Just.” His chuckle grew in volume. “No way. No fucking—”  
  
James jumped out of his seat.  
  
“Woah, woah, hold it.” Panic seized him. Lars pushed up against the door, his hand scrambling again for the knob. “I didn’t mean—”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“I wasn’t laughing—”  
  
A strong hand grabbed his wrist.  
  
“ _James—!_ ”  
  
The other slapped over his mouth.  
  
Panic seized him. He reacted out of memory, out of the age-old need to escape, to protect himself, like when James was mad back then, when James punched him and blamed him for changing the setlist without conferring with him. He shoved at his chest with his free hand, kicked at his shins, his ankles. Used his knees to knee him in the crotch, put all his strength into bucking James off. But James was too heavy. Too strong. James’s whole body weight landed over his, pinning him to the door—pinning both his wrists over his head, having easily snatched up the other. The hand over his mouth squeezed hard, muffled his grunts and his curses, forcing him to be quiet. Forcing him to give in. And as much as his mind screamed _get away, get out of here,_ his body, slowly, stopped struggling. It slowly, so slowly, gave up the fight. His legs stopped kicking first. His arms ceased jerking second. His heart still thumped like mad against his chest, the sound matching the pounds in his head, and his breathing still labored, hard breaths that strained his lungs and his stomach, but the need to get away subsided. Slowly.  
  
And James was quiet.  
  
James watched his struggles slowly peter off, in silence.  
  
Lars shut his eyes.  
  
With each breath, he relaxed his body, until his breathing tempered out, as well as his heartbeat.  
  
Soon, James’s hand relaxed its hold over his mouth. Not longer hurting, or bruising, but still pressing over his lips.  
  
He felt James’s nose brush his. His hot breath over his face.  
  
“You gonna be quiet?”  
  
Lars nodded, as best he could.  
  
The hand slid off his mouth.  
  
The hold on his wrists let go.  
  
His arms slowly fell at his sides.  
  
“Turn around.”  
  
One of his shoulders brushed James’s chest, turning to face the door.  
  
His forehead pressed against it.  
  
“Hands on the door.”  
  
His sweaty palms rested on the wood, framing his head.  
  
James’s hands settled onto his hips.  
  
“Bend over.”  
  
Lars’s stomach clenched. His fingers curled on the door.  
  
Slowly, he bent at the waist.  
  
The hands on his hips slid down. Over his thighs. To his zipper.  
  
He sucked in his bottom lip.  
  
Hot breath tickled his ear.  
  
“Don’t move,” James whispered.  
  
Fingers, on his crotch.  
  
The zipper went down.  
  
Those hands pushed his jeans down.  
  
Cool air hit his exposed skin.  
  
Lars felt his arms tremble. His legs too.  
  
He chewed on his bottom lip.  
  
The jeans ended up around his knees.  
  
Fingers dipped under the band of his briefs.  
  
Lars whimpered.  
  
James whispered, “Shh.”  
  
And the briefs went down. They bunched up around his thighs.  
  
His hard cock bounced. The tip rubbed against the door.  
  
Fingertips slowly skirted over his trembling thighs. They slipped between to touch the warm, inner flesh, and traveled up. And up. Until…  
  
They slipped out.  
  
Lars released a shaky exhale.  
  
 _Almost. He almost—_  
  
Those fingers touched his hips.  
  
Lars stiffened.  
  
They skipped over the dents. Traveled down and around his waistline, to the small of his back. He felt a thumb rub his tailbone.  
  
Then, warm palms settled on the rise of his ass.  
  
And they slipped lower.  
  
And lower.  
  
Until—  
  
Lars gasped.  
  
James’s hands squeezed his ass _hard_.  
  
His sweaty hands bunched into fists on the door. His cock rubbed against it. His sweaty forehead slid on the wood.  
  
Those hands squeezed again. Massaged his ass. Grabbed and pulled at the flesh. Pulling his cheeks apart. Pushing them together.  
  
He ate his whimper. Stifled all the moans he wanted to release. _James said be quiet. James said don’t move._  
  
James twisted his fingers and _pulled_.  
  
Lars’s neck jerked back. His mouth twisted up in pain.  
  
A choked whimper spilled out.  
  
And James whispered again, “Shh.”  
  
Lars pushed his forehead back to the door. Clawed his fingers and nails at the wood.  
  
He breathed hard through his nose.  
  
James breathed hard too, against his ear.  
  
 _Don’t say anything._ He swallowed saliva. Pain shot up his back, down his thighs. _Don’t fucking move._  
  
It hurt to breathe. To stay standing. The urge to give in, to give up, was overwhelming.  
  
Lars forced his hands back onto the door, palms down.  
  
 _Don’t fuck it up._  
  
James slowly loosened his grip on his ass. But his hands stayed on the burning flesh, his palms cupping his ass cheeks.  
  
Lars licked his lips. Tasted his own sweat.  
  
One of those palms pushed an ass cheek to the side.  
  
His eyes shot wide open.  
  
A thumb pressed over his hole.  
  
James’s thumb. Pressing there.  
  
 _Oh my God_. His breathing picked up again. Heartbeat too. _Oh my fucking—_  
  
The thumb pushed in a little.  
  
Lars gasped and jolted, head jerking back from the door.  
  
And James’s hands flew from his ass to his face. A hand slapped over his mouth again. The other sunk fingers into his hair, scraping nails right into his scalp. He found his body slammed into the door, James’s weight pinning him there, and the panic came back. The need to get away, to escape. Fear of the unknown, of what James could do, here, in the basement, with his pants around his ankles and his weak body and—  
  
“You like this,” James hissed, loud and clear, against his ear. “Don’t you Lars?”  
  
Lars stared at the door. Smudges of his own sweat stained the wood.  
  
The fingers in his hair pulled. “Huh?”  
  
A small nod.  
  
His face ended up cheek-first into the door. Pain shot from the side of his head. His whole body planted to the wood, and his hard cock twitched and his insides turned cold and hot at the same time, when James snarled, “Next time, don’t fucking laugh. I _never_ lie.”  
  
And he found himself yanked away from the door, shoved onto the floor.  
  
Lars scrambled, with shaky limbs, on all fours—  
  
“Don’t get up.”  
  
A boot pushed against his bare ass.  
  
“Crawl into that corner.”  
  
The tone in James’s voice commanded his body to obey. He crawled on his hands and knees, the carpet burning his palms and elbows, into the first corner he saw. It might’ve been the wrong one.  
  
When he reached that corner, his mind finally caught up, and it screamed _what the hell are you doing, what the fuck is wrong with you, you’re letting him do this to you, treating you like a fucking dog, you sick fucking—_  
  
“Now count to 50.”  
  
He heard the door slammed wide open. His body jolted at the sound.  
  
“And don’t fucking move until you’re done. Got it?”  
  
Lars exaggerated his nods, up and down, so James could see.  
  
Footsteps retreated away on carpet.  
  
Creaks from the stairs. Creaks that lessened and disappeared.  
  
Then, silence. Total silence.  
  
 _He’s gone._ Lars stared at the corner. _He left. You can move now. Put your pants back on._ Shut his eyes. _Fuck him. He had no right. He had no…_  
  
He bowed his neck and counted one.  
  
Two.  
  
At twenty-two, his arms grew tired.  
  
At forty-three, his legs tingled.  
  
Finally, at fifty, Lars flopped onto his chest, throwing his arms over his head. His body trembled all over. His head pulsed. His ass burned, felt bruised and sore. And his cock, still hard, pressed between his stomach and the damn carpet.  
  
Thick shamed washed over him. Then came the thoughts. _What the fuck did you do? What is_ wrong _with you? Why did you let James do that? Why would you allow_ yourself _to do that?_ His chest welled up. He rubbed his hot face into the carpet. _Don’t do it again. Never again. You have to stop it. You_ must _._  
  
His body stopped trembling enough for Lars to put his clothes back on. He ignored his hard cock, tucking it back into his underwear. It just didn’t seem right, touching himself, after all that. Didn’t feel right.  
  
He took his time taking the stairs up from the Dungeon, back to the first floor. Just in case James had stayed.  
  
But there was no James waiting for him in the living room, or the kitchen, or anywhere else in the house. And he found his confirmation in the driveway.  
  
James’s truck was gone.  
  
James did that to him, _said_ that to him, and left.  
  
Just… left him there. Like that.  
  
Lars sat on the living room sofa in silence, surveying his arms.  
  
Both his wrists smarted. From what he could see, bruises started to form on the skin. There were probably bruises on his ass too. It hurt sitting down. It’d probably hurt sitting down for a while, most likely.  
  
He ran the fingers of his left hand over his right wrist.  
  
Then, the right fingers, over his left wrist.  
  
More bruises from James. More marks.  
  
 _I can’t let this go on. I shouldn’t._  
  
Lars stared at his hands.  
  
But James held his hands back. James, who breathed into his ear. Touched his body. Commanded him, in _that_ voice. Forced him. Manhandled him. Humiliated him.  
  
And his cock had been hard, the entire time.  
  
Lars ran his hands over his face and sighed into his palms, leaning backwards onto the couch.  
  
“I am so _fucked_.”


	3. Frustration

Two weeks passed. Two long weeks wherein Lars avoided the phone, and the porn in his house, for work. The album, future gigs, press releases, interviews, potential interviews, anything Burnstein, Reiter or Mensch could throw at him—which, thankfully, they were happy to do. When he wasn’t doing work, he went out. Gallery showings, plays, the opera, the ballet, lunches and dinners with local friends for lunches, for dinners, movies at home—anything to keep him distracted from what happened. He knew full well he was avoiding the inevitable, and he didn’t care. Two weeks was enough time not only for the bruises on his ass to fade, but to forget about what happened between him and James. It was for the best. This had to stop, after all. It wasn’t good for him, for James, the band…  
  
And like last week, that all went to hell when he saw James sitting in the Plant’s control room, long jean-clad legs propped up on the audioboard desk, a hunting magazine in his hands.  
  
James’s head turned to him.  
  
“Hi Lars,” he said.  
  
Lars stared. At his legs. His hands.  
  
The hands that were on—  
  
“Have a good vacation?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Did you have a good vacation?”  
  
“Uh. Yeah.” He forced himself to step into the room. “You?”  
  
James shrugged. He closed the magazine, dropping it onto the floor. “Jason and Kirk should be here soon.” His feet left the desk.  
  
Lars walked to the couch. “Bob around?”  
  
“Went off to get McDonald’s. Breakfast ends soon.”  
  
“Ah. Okay.” He turned his back to James, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it onto the couch. “Well, once they’re all here, I think we should decide on what songs will stay and which will—”  
  
Lars froze.  
  
Fingertips brushed his lower back.  
  
He turned around, in time to see James’s hand move away, and James himself turning away, showing his back to him too.  
  
Their eyes met for a brief second.  
  
That look.  
  
The same look from…  
  
James’s head faced the door. He walked out, saying over his shoulder, “Gonna get a drink.”  
  
He said, “Okay,” to an empty room.  
  
His back tingled.  
  
The minor bruises left on his ass pulsed. So did the vague bruise lingering on his right shoulder. It made his knees a little weak, his face a little hot.  
  
It made his jeans a little tighter too.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
Kirk showed up almost half a minute later, bounding through the door with a new tan and lots of energy. With that energy came the pestering Lars anticipated. “You and James the only one here?” Kirk said, with a lewd grin that made Lars want to smash him into the wall. “Shut up,” he said back, and he ignored the stares Kirk gave him the rest of the time waiting for Jason, Bob and Randy to finally arrive.  
  
The day went on as normal. As normal as it could be, considering he kept waiting for James to do something again. Whether that was another accidental brush to his skin, or something much worse, he didn’t know. But the attack never came. James kept his distance. Ended up gravitating towards Jason most of the day.  
  
He should’ve felt relief. Instead, the urge to push Jason away grew and grew every time James shared a laugh with Jason, ate lunch with Jason, commented on music with Jason, touched Jason, hugged Jason, fucking _everything_ with Jason. Jason this, Jason that.  
  
He hated being jealous of anybody in general. It was worse, being jealous of Jason, of all people.  
  
It was stupid, being jealous. Let Jason have James’s attention. Let him listen to James’s stupid dry jokes and his thoughts on the last Raider’s game. What did he care? But he realized throughout the day, watching James and Jason together, that he actually wanted James’s attention. Needed it.  
  
The thought of Jason getting a taste of what he did, last week—the thought of James doing to _Jason_ what he did to _him_ —pissed Lars off to the point where he flipped between seething and sulking on the couch for the last hour of today’s scheduled recording.  
  
The others tried to make light of the situation. James finally cracked some of those dry jokes in his direction. Kirk teased him, try to make him laugh. Jason acted his goofy Jason self. But his anger didn’t subside. His disappointment either. Nor his jealousy.  
  
James didn’t pressure him into anything. Didn’t corner him, didn’t push him up against the wall, didn’t hold him down and…  
  
He did nothing.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Against his better judgement—namely the voice of reason and doubt that said, as usual, _what the fuck are you doing, don’t do it_ —Lars decided to turn James’s nothing into a something.  
  
He waited until most of everyone had left to approach James, where he laid the bait down that he knew would lure him in. “We need to talk about Outlaw.”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“I’m still not convinced.”  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“I just need—”  
  
“You fucking said it was great.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I need to listen to it again. See if it’s right for this album or not.” He turned towards the control room. “Persuade me.”  
  
It didn’t take a lot for James to persuade him. He _did_ like Outlaw. Loved it even. Thought it was the best damn song they made in a long time, and Lars wished they could’ve kept the original James outro solo, but a sacrifice had to be made, and tomorrow, they’d work on the new album edit.  
  
“So it’s on the album,” James said.  
  
“It’s on the album.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“I wasn’t too sure, you know, about the length, and the riff, and how slow it is, but what can I say?”  
  
“You can say ‘goodnight.’”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
James chuckled, stretching his arms over his head. He yawned, “Fuuuuck.” His hands slammed back down onto his thighs. “I’m beat.”  
  
He watched James push out of his chair. “Calling it a night?”  
  
“Yeah. Not up for anything but sleep.”  
  
“Too bad.” _Don’t say it._ James walked to the door. _Don’t fucking say_ —“I was hoping we could… y’know. Do something together.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like before.”  
  
“Before…?”  
  
His voice lowered. “In the Dungeon.”  
  
In the doorway, James froze.  
  
Lars held his breath.  
  
Slowly, James turned and faced him.  
  
And stared.  
  
Just stared.  
  
He pulled at his own fingers.  
  
All this silence.  
  
Then: “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”  
  
“What?” Lars frowned. “I’m not—”  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
A chill ran through him, all the way to his ass.  
  
Lars looked down at James’s feet.  
  
He nodded yes.  
  
One of James’s feet stepped back.  
  
“Sorry. I don’t do virgins.”  
  
An hour later, Lars stormed through the front door of his house and headed to his kitchen, where he swiped his six pack of Bud (five pack now, thanks to James), a bag of chips and then quickly headed up the stairs.  
  
He cursed along the way, “The fuck does he mean ‘I don’t do virgins’? What the fuck was that shit two weeks ago in my basement, uh? Fuck you, Hetfield, you stupid fucking…”  
  
Inside his bedroom, he shucked off all his clothes, throwing them to the floor. He then slammed back onto the bed naked, laid the bag of chips on one side of himself, the pack of Bud on the other, grabbed the remote and turned the TV on.  
  
A western.  
  
 _Click._  
  
60 Minutes.  
  
 _Click._  
  
Seinfeld.  
  
ER, Roseanne, football…  
  
Over 100 channels, and nothing good was on.  
  
He gave up the cable for his videos. Porn, porn and more porn. Nothing like the old-standby to feel better about a day that turned to shit.  
  
There was nothing kinky about this flick, nor did it have any kind of plot. Just massive amounts of bisexual roleplaying fun. Handyman screwing the lonely housewife deal, followed by the sexy female professor seducing her little college student.  
  
He ate some chips, drank a beer.  
  
And some more chips. Some more beer.  
  
The next scene came about: the naughty male photographer and his willing male subject.  
  
By the time they were fucking, he finished another can of beer, ate half the bag of chips, and his dick was still limp.  
  
Lars lowered the volume, flicking the remote to the side.  
  
He flipped through the usual fantasies while he worked up his limp dick. Images of being sucked off by three hot big-breasted chicks. Images of being fucked on all fours, nice and slow.  
  
Images of a big, strong, tall guy fucking him slow over the couch, or up against the wall.  
  
Or in a bathroom. A dirty stall.  
  
Slamming a hand over his mouth when he moaned too loud. Hissing into his ear, _Shut up._  
  
That voice sounded like James.  
  
 _No._ He grit his teeth. _Fuck no. Fuck James._  
  
The scene changed in his head. He wasn’t the one against the stall door. James was. James had his face against it, his body pushed and bruised and held down. His mouth forced quiet by a hand—a stronger hand than his own—and he was the one made helpless, he was the one who whimpered and was told, “Shh.”  
  
And James took it. James made himself quiet.  
  
Lars’s hand went up and down.  
  
He wouldn’t be strong enough to hold James down. It had to be someone bigger. Someone taller. Someone with big arms and big legs with a lot of weight, who could throw James around, shove him out of the bathroom, sneer into his ear, “Let’s take this someplace else,” and drag his ass outside. Right into an alleyway. A dark, abandoned alleyway.  
  
With a knife to his neck.  
  
 _Fuck._ Lars lifted his free hand to his nipple. _Oh fuck._  
  
The guy’s big hands would hold James’s wrists down, down to the ground. He’d tie up his wrists with something, shove a rag into his mouth, jerk off his pants and spit into his hand. James would resist, as best he could. He’d wiggle around in the dirt, angry hisses bleeding through the gag, and the guy would hiss into his face _shut up bitch_ and then _SLAP_ to his face, _SLAP_ to his ass, and James would still squirm. Would still fight.  
  
Lars groaned.  
  
Another scene change. Now they were in a dungeon, a basement, this guy’s basement, the basement he abducted James to, and they’re alone. No one saw him drag James away, no one saw this guy pull James’s hair into his truck and take him away.  
  
Out came the rope, the knife, the toys, and James was no helpless, James was alone, with this guy, and— _oh fuck, oh fuck fuck_ —the guy would drag him across the floor, hold him down, jerk down his pants, push him over something like a bed, or a chair, a bench— _oh God yes, that, yes_ —a long fucking wooden bench—and the guy would shove James over it, his clothes hanging off of him in tatters.  
  
The mattress squeaked with Lars’s movements.  
  
And James would try to fight, try to get away but the guy would fish out some rope, some chains, strap him down to that bench until James was immobile and couldn’t move anything. But James won’t give up, he won’t stop growling behind his gag, the bench wiggling with his frantic movements. But the guy, this fucking big burly guy, he wanted James broken, and he would tell that to him, hissing into his ear, _cry bitch cry_ , and— _oh fuck_ —he would spank him. Cane him. Whip him, whip and flog him hard and make those marks on his back _bleed_ , doing it over and over and over until James was whimpering, fucking _whimpering_ , and begging, and pleading, with his hard dick swinging between his quivering legs.  
  
Lars’s hand sped up. His breathing hitched.  
  
Then the guy would grab James’s hair in one hand, hiss into his ear, _That’s it bitch,_ and use his other hand— _fuck, oh fuck_ —to finger James rough, and hard, just fucking relentless. And James would cry out, and the guy would position his dick— _fuck fuck fuck—_ hiss again, _Fucking squeal bitch, squeal loud for me_ , and then— _oh FUCK—_ James would _howl_ when the guy shoved inside him. One thrust, another thrust, fucking him hard, the table jerking with his thrusts, and James crying out and the guy laughing and grunting and James grunting too and _come bitch come_ the guy grabbing James’s dick and pulling and snearing _come_ and James’s back arching and James’s head snapping back and James _James James_ —  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
His hips lifted far off the bed, ass clenched tight, come spilling over his hand.  
  
Behind his lids, James came too.  
  
“Ohh…” He slowed down his movements. “Ooh fuck…”  
  
It took him three tries to finally open his eyes. When his vision focused, he noticed spurts of come over his stomach and chest. The TV light made the patches shine.  
  
His hand flopped off his dick to his thigh.  
  
His legs felt like jelly. So did his whole body.  
  
He tingled all over, felt sweat trickle down the sides of his hot face and down his neck.  
  
Lars stared up at the ceiling.  
  
His breathing slowly returned to normal, as did his heartbeat.  
  
Then, he closed his eyes. And behind the lids, he saw James. Again.  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
There was only one answer to this problem: if James wasn't going to do shit, he was going to have to find someone who would. Thankfully, he already knew the person.  
  
Once he cleaned himself up with a nice, long shower, he picked up the phone and dialed Kirk. He didn’t even wait for him to speak first. “You doing anything tonight?”  
  
“I was actually heading out to a club—”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“DNA Lounge.”  
  
“I’ll meet you there.”  
  
“Cool!”  
  
It took a good two hours to get Kirk out of the place. He had to sit through Kirk flirting and fondling with various girls throughout the night. He played along, entertaining some redhead, until the time came: Kirk, liquored up just enough, and easy to manipulate.  
  
Almost easy. “What are you doing?”  
  
He pulled at Kirk’s silk shirt sleeve, pushing through the sea of people.  
  
“Lars—”  
  
“Just trust me.”  
  
“But where are we going?”  
  
“You’ll see.”  
  
The original plan was to shove Kirk out the door and into his car. It changed when he realized Kirk wasn’t going anywhere tonight, unless it was with a lady, and that couldn’t happen. Not tonight.  
  
He dragged Kirk over to the men’s room, shoving them inside and locking the door behind them. Luckily, it was one of those one-toilet only bathrooms.  
  
Kirk gave him one of those lewd grins. “I see now.”  
  
“Kirk—”  
  
“Can’t get it with James, so—”  
  
“ _Kirk_.”  
  
“Hey, I don’t mind man, it’s kinda flattering.”  
  
“Yes well—”  
  
“But you know I don’t go all the way, right?”  
  
Lars froze.  
  
“I mean, kissing guys? No problem. But full blown sex?” Kirk laughed. “No way bro. Never happening.”  
  
He turned to the door.  
  
Behind him, Kirk said, “Hey, where you—”  
  
“ _Useless!_ ”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
He slammed the door behind him.  
  
Finding a sex shop in San Francisco was easy. Finding one actually open proved daunting. He finally found one in Mission District, where he upped the collar of his jacket, pushed his hair over his eyes, shoved the baseball cap as far as it could go over his head and rushed inside. He bought the first dildo he found, the phrase ‘for beginners’ on the packaging having caught his eye. To his relief, the guy at the cash register didn’t recognize him. Didn’t even look at him, just at his magazine of gay porn stars.  
  
One quick trip to the local Walgreens for some lube, where the cashier lady didn’t even bat an eye over the KY Jelly, and he drove over the Bridge and back home.  
  
Like earlier in the day, Lars stormed through the front door and bounded up the steps. He cursed along the way, “If you want something done, do it your own fucking self.”  
  
All his clothes ended up back on the floor. He then sat on the bed naked, taking the dildo out of the bag, then the lube.  
  
In the privacy of his own room, he could finally assess what he actually bought. It was a slim dildo. Tiny in width, had a good base, and purple.  
  
Purple. James’s favorite color.  
  
He laughed, rubbing a hand over his face.  
  
 _What am I doing? What the_ fuck _am I doing?_  
  
That small moment of doubt came and went. The need to do something, _anything_ to fix this situation and get James _out_ of his head, was too great. And since Kirk wasn’t going to do it, this was the only option left.  
  
The porn he left in the VHS player provided appropriate background noise. He rewound the tape, stopping a scene he liked—the cruel officer and the helpless burglar.  
  
Lars eaned back onto the bed, propping his knees up to his chest.  
  
On the screen, the officer did the only kinky thing of the whole flick. He cuffed the burglar’s hands behind him, and then ravished his body over a desk.  
  
He snapped open the tube.  
  
The officer coated his fingers with spit.  
  
Lars coated two of his fingers with lube.  
  
He pushed one finger into himself, just as the officer did to the burglar’s. He went as slow as the officer did, teasing himself as he teased the guy on screen, his dick hardening again for a second time tonight.  
  
One finger turned into two. He scissored and stretched them. Used more lube, and more lube, and more, until his fingers made a nice _squelsh_ inside him.  
  
Lars shut his eyes.  
  
James again. James’s hands, grabbing his ass.  
  
James’s fingers, in his ass. Fucking his ass, as slow and deep as he was fucking himself.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
On screen, the officer didn’t waste anymore time. He slipped inside the burglar, hands bruising his hips, balls slapping against his ass. Each thrust made the desk jerk, and the burglar whine and chant “yes, yes, oh God yesss.”  
  
Lars squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm.  
  
He took his time coating the dildo, from base to tip.  
  
The officer grunted. The burglar groaned.  
  
Lars watched himself bring the dildo to his ass.  
  
He gulped.  
  
Hesitated.  
  
Then, pushed a little forward.  
  
Minor stretch. Little pressure.  
  
He pushed it in more.  
  
Lars sucked in his bottom lip.  
  
More pressure. More stretching.  
  
Stretching, and burning. It felt weird, and strange, and—  
  
His ass clenched around it.  
  
The dildo pushed against his hand.  
  
He pushed it in more.  
  
The burning intensified.  
  
His breathing sped up. _Stop._ His toes curled. _Stop. Pull it out._ His bent legs shook. _Pull it the fuck out._  
  
A little push in.  
  
The stretch. The pressure.  
  
That burn.  
  
Lars whimpered. His head lolled back onto the bed, eyes fluttering shut.  
  
With his fingers squeezing the handle, he slowly pulled the dildo back out.  
  
And back in.  
  
Out, and in.  
  
Slow, slow thrusts. A total contrast to the hard grunts and moans and slapping skin coming from the TV screen.  
  
He couldn’t push it all the way in, but it wasn’t about depth to him. It was about doing this, the actual act of doing this to himself. Showing James, _fuck you, I don’t need you,_ and Kirk too. Fuck them for rejecting him, for missing the opportunity.  
  
 _I don’t need them_. His free hand slid down his sweaty torso to his dick against his belly. _I don’t need…_  
  
James, over his body. Holding his wrists down. Fucking him in slow, deep thrusts. Making him feel it.  
  
Lars’s head shook no.  
  
Teeth biting his shoulders, his neck. Bruising his skin. Marking him some more.  
  
He groaned, “Uhn.”  
  
That big, naked chest, resting against his. James’s hair, falling over one shoulder.  
  
And that look.  
  
His hand sped up faster over his dick.  
  
That damn look.  
  
His grip faltered on the dildo.  
  
James’s hot breath blew over his face. His words echoed like thick water.  
  
“You like this. Don’t you Lars?”  
  
Lars moaned and nodded yes.  
  
In his mind, James sped up. His hands squeezed his wrists firmer. The bed squeaked louder.  
  
His body _burned_ all over.  
  
James’s neck dipped, mouth hovering next his ear.  
  
He whispered, “Good boy.”  
  
Lars whined, “Jaaaaaaames,” coming all over his hand, and himself, again.  
  
The grip on the dildo slipped first, his hand flopping to the side. Little of it was inside him, and it easily fell out. His other hand slowed down second, spreading the come over his spent, sensitive cock, until it too flopped onto the bed.  
  
His shaky legs uncurled, feet planted down.  
  
His breathing labored too heavy. Too loud.  
  
His thighs quivered. Stomach and chest too.  
  
Slowly, he stretched out his trembling legs onto the bed.  
  
He wasn’t sure how many minutes passed when he felt ready to move. On the TV screen was a new scene, something he knew was towards the end of the whole film.  
  
His body still tingled when he rolled onto his side and pushed off the bed. He held onto the wall for balance, walking into the bathroom to fetch a towel to clean himself up with.  
  
When done, Lars returned back to bed, flopping onto his side.  
  
He stared at the purple dildo, still slick with some lube.  
  
His ass felt a little empty. He could feel the lube inside. It felt sore again too, as sore as before, when James—  
  
Lars groaned, turning his head into the sheets.  
  
All this, because of James. Because of what he said today.  
  
 _Goddamnit._ He turned around, chest planted to the mattress. _This was supposed to end everything. But instead I just..._ He sighed into the sheets. _I can’t carry on like this. I can’t_ think _about him like that._  
  
He folded his hands over the back of his head.  
  
 _I can’t_ want _him like that._  
  
Behind him, the scene on screen ended. Another one started. Grunts and moans began this one. Some man and woman fucked hard, saying cheesy dialogue.  
  
Lars rubbed his fingers through his hair.  
  
All he saw was more James behind his closed eyes. James’s hands, James’s body, James’s look, and James’s damn eyes.  
  
James consumed his world.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Pushing onto his elbows, he looked over his shoulder.  
  
He stared at the purple dildo.  
  
And stared.  
  
 _I don’t do virgins_ , James said.  
  
Lars rolled off the bed.  
  
He rummaged through his closet for his Polaroid camera.  
  
Once found, he mounted the bed again, on all fours.  
  
The voice of reason and doubt kicked in when he picked up the sticky dildo, and the tube of KY Jelly again. _You can’t do this. James already said he doesn’t want you. This is supposed to be it, Lars. Don’t make it worse. It’s a stupid fucking idea and you know it._  
  
Lars silenced that voice with a push of the dildo back inside him.  
  
His shoulders trembled. His sore ass burned again.  
  
He clenched his ass around the dildo once it was in just enough.  
  
With shaky hands, he aimed the Polaroid camera up and behind him as far as he could, tilting it at a slight angle.  
  
 _Click._  
  
A flash.  
  
A white film burped out. It fluttered down to the bed, beside his shins.  
  
He grabbed the photo and flipped it over to develop, and then aimed the camera lower.  
  
 _Click._ Another flash. Another film fluttering down. Another photo turned over.  
  
Switching arms, he aimed the camera at a different angle.  
  
 _Click_. One last time.  
  
He grabbed the last photo and flipped it over.  
  
Lars passed the time for them to develop by tidying himself and the room up. Putting the camera back into the closet. Placing new sheets on the bed. Cleaning up the dildo and put it in the underwear drawer, with the tube of lube. Popping the VHS out and turning the TV off.  
  
After a quick bath washing his body, and his ass, he walked to the nightstand and picked up each photo.  
  
The first one, he only got most of his back. The second shot, he caught some of the dildo.  
  
The last shot though.  
  
His face became red hot again.  
  
His lower body all on display, showing off his thighs, lower back, his balls, and the dildo, barely halfway in, but it was inside.  
  
He shredded the first two photos. The last one, he left on the nightstand.  
  
Lars turned off the light and curled onto his side, staring out into the darkness for a little while. Then, he whispered to himself, “I’m a fucking idiot,” before he succumbed to, thankfully, a dreamless sleep.


	4. Succumb

The next evening, with the Plant empty of all personnel and other band members, Lars stood in front of James in the control room and handed him over a white envelope.  
  
James took it. “What’s this?”  
  
“Open it.”  
  
He held his breath, watching James’s fingers rip the seal open and dip inside, pulling out the photo. _The_ photo.  
  
James’s eyes widened. Big.  
  
The envelope fluttered to the ground.  
  
A long, uncomfortable silence bled between them.  
  
Then: “When was this?”  
  
“Uh?”  
  
“When did you take this?”  
  
Lars licked his lips and mumbled, “Yesterday.”  
  
James’s eyes flickered up.  
  
His stomach flipped at the look James gave him—different from _that_ look before, or any look given to him previously, ever.  
  
It was the look of a true predator.  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
Lars startled. “Uh?”  
  
“Your place. Now.”  
  
“Ah—”  
  
“ _Now_.”  
  
The growl James gave caused his body to react first, zooming past James for the door. It didn’t hit him until he was in the car that he never changed out of his studio robes, or took the shower he meant to take before giving James that photo, _or_ grabbed the bag that housed his street clothes. He was driving home, with James following him in his truck, only wearing the shorts he drummed in, and nothing else.  
  
And it was on the drive over the Bridge that his thoughts caught up with him, and he realized what just happened. James didn’t reject him. James didn’t laugh in his face. James didn’t even fight. Nor did he, either, when James told him—ordered him—to get going.  
  
James wanted this too. Probably wanted this the whole time, and rejected him only to tease him. Or to test him. Or both.  
  
He parked in the driveway first. James pulled up a minute later, parking beside him.  
  
Lars re-tightened the sash of his robe before leaving his car.  
  
James met him at the front of the house, leaning beside the door. Lars fumbled with the keys for a little bit, before he opened it.  
  
He stepped in first, his back to James. Flipped the lights on. “Do you want—”  
  
The door slammed shut.  
  
Lars jumped.  
  
“Upstairs.”  
  
Again, his body listened first. His hand gripped the railing on the way up the stairs, his head spinning from what he was doing, what was _actually_ happening.  
  
He heard James behind him, the stomps of his feet climbing the steps.  
  
In the bedroom, he fumbled for the switch on the wall. Light snapped on, and he walked to the unmade bed, his knees weakening with each step forward.  
  
His legs brushed the sheets.  
  
He bent over—  
  
“Stop.”  
  
Lars straightened up.  
  
This time, the door shut with a soft click.  
  
Footsteps on carpet, coming closer.  
  
“Take off the robe.”  
  
He swallowed.  
  
His trembling hands went for the sash.  
  
It made a soft _swish_.  
  
Cool air hit his bare chest. His bare belly.  
  
Lars pushed the robe off his shoulders, one by one. It pooled around his feet—  
  
Fingers brushed quick down his spine and off.  
  
He gasped, back arching, toes curling, eyelids fluttering, hands clenching into fists at his side.  
  
Then came that warm breath, tickling his ear.  
  
“The shorts next.”  
  
His hands unfurled. They drifted up to the waist, touched the elastic band, skipped over the rumbled edges, and his whole body shivered when his fingers delved inside, heated skin touching heated skin, and they pulled down. All the way down, over his ass, his hard cock, his thighs. He bent a little at the waist to pull the fabric to his knees. There, he let go, and the shorts slipped the rest of the way, crowding around his ankles.  
  
He stepped out of them. Left foot first, then the right.  
  
James’s breathing deepened.  
  
His next command sounded husky.  
  
“Get on the bed.”  
  
His knees buckled first, collapsing onto the bed. His body followed along, toppling over face-first, and his arms came up in time for the impact.  
  
The bed bounced under him.  
  
The room spun.  
  
Slowly, he situated his knees better. Then his arms. They moved up, turned his body around, placing him in the center—what he thought was the center—facing the headboard.  
  
Hand on his back.  
  
Lars froze.  
  
James’s hand, on the small of his back.  
  
“Stay.”  
  
His face heated up.  
  
Stay. Like a damn pet.  
  
The hand slipped off. “Where is it?”  
  
He fumbled for his voice. “W-Where’s what?”  
  
“The dildo.”  
  
Lars lifted a shaky hand up from the bed. He pointed to the other side of the room, where his dresser was.  
  
Footsteps crunched on carpet.  
  
James walked into his side vision, approaching the dresser.  
  
He licked his lips and whispered, “First one. Top drawer.”  
  
Lars shut his eyes when James touched the handles.  
  
The drawer made a loud _swish_ noise. Wood slid on metal.  
  
He bowed his neck.  
  
His cheeks burned at James’s laugh.  
  
“Hiding beneath all your underwear. Cute.”  
  
He jolted when James slammed the drawer shut.  
  
The returning footsteps.  
  
His whole body tensed up.  
  
That familiar click, of a bottle opening. The lube bottle.  
  
James’s hand touched his lower back again, and Lars fought the urge to bury his face into the sheets. Instead, he scrunched up his face, twisted his fingers into the sheets, clenched his ass and his stomach tight and waited for the fingers pushing inside, stretching, scissoring, fucking—  
  
“Is it sore?”  
  
Lars nodded yes.  
  
“Not surprising. You didn’t prepare right.” James’s fingers circled the skin. A slow, gentle circle, once, twice. “Just relax.”  
  
He nodded again.  
  
James slid his hand down to his ass.  
  
Fingers skipped between the crack, over his hole.  
  
Lars’s whole lower body tensed.  
  
The fingers slipped off.  
  
“I said relax.”  
  
His mind listened. His body didn’t. He chanted _relax, fucking relax,_ but every muscle clenched up tight below the waist.  
  
Hearing James’s resigned sigh hit him in his chest.  
  
“Roll over.”  
  
He fought the urge to run and curled onto his side, turning onto his back, arms on either side of his head.  
  
James’s hands grabbed his ankles.  
  
A rush of heat flushed over Lars, feeling James push his legs open wide, and wider, until his thighs strained, and he planted his feet down onto the bed.  
  
“Don’t move.”  
  
Lars nodded.  
  
The bed shifted. Weight dipped onto the mattress, at his feet.  
  
Those hands slid up his calves. Over his knees, and down.  
  
Fingers tickled his exposed inner thighs, rising goosebumps on his skin. Close to touching his balls. To touching him.  
  
They squeezed behind thighs. Squeezed his hamstrings.  
  
Lars’s breathing picked up.  
  
Then, hair tickled his thighs. James’s hair.  
  
His eyes snapped open.  
  
He jerked his head up and froze at what he saw between his legs.  
  
James, eyes closed, and mouth open, kneeling on the bed, hair around his face, hair touching his pelvis and thighs, lowering his head, right to his—  
  
Lars gasped, his legs jerking.  
  
James held them firm.  
  
He watched James’s tongue lick the head of his cock. Lick it again. And again. He turned his head to the left, hair brushing the skin of his lower belly.  
  
Then his lips closed.  
  
Lars gasped again.  
  
And James’s mouth went down.  
  
James was sucking him off.  
  
His first blowjob, from a guy, and it was _James._  
  
He moaned, “Oooh,” eyes shutting and head falling back onto the bed. One of his hand lifted up from the sheets, drifting to James’s head—  
  
One of James’s hand left his thighs, snatching his wrist up and planting it back down.  
  
His mouth slid up and off his dick.  
  
Lars whimpered, opening his eyes a little.  
  
Over the erratic rise and fall of his own belly, he caught James’s glare. The glare of a predator.  
  
“What did I say?”  
  
He fought for air, and for his words, before he panted out, “D-Don’t move.”  
  
“Then don’t fucking move.”  
  
“M’sorry.”  
  
“Hm.” He let his wrist go.  
  
Lars’s fingers crunched into the sheets next to his hip. The other hand near his head twisted into the bed cover.  
  
James released his thighs.  
  
He watched both hands reach for his dick.  
  
His hands jerked the sheets.  
  
Both hands covered his hard cock.  
  
His toes curled.  
  
 _Don’t move._  
  
James tilted his head down, eyes on him.  
  
Lars’s legs trembled like his arms.  
  
 _Don’t fucking move._  
  
He watched James’s lips part, his tongue stick out, and—Lars groaned—lick the tip again. And again, in a slow, slow circle.  
  
James settled back into position, slipping a hand away to grab one of his trembling thighs again, squeezing it firm. His mouth slid back down, over his cock, and Lars shut his eyes once more, head tilting to the side, sweaty cheek planting onto the sheets.  
  
His fingers clutched for more of the sheets.  
  
Slow movements, James’s mouth, up and down his cock. James’s hand, stroking the base. He fought the urge to thrust his hips up. Fought the need to grab James and make him go faster. _Don’t move,_ James said. _Don’t fucking move._  
  
Then James pulled his mouth off again.  
  
Lars released a strangled whimper.  
  
James’s chuckled. “You’re learning.”  
  
Mouth back on his cock. Lars gasped, yanking the sheets. James’s mouth, swallowing him, all that wet heat, down to the base, nose and ends of hair brushing the skin, moving up and down slow, too slow— _oh fuck_ —and Lars clawed at the bedsheets, legs twitching around James’s moving head, struggling to breathe, to stay _still_.  
  
His control slipped when he felt fingers brush his balls.  
  
His whole body trembled.  
  
Fingers squeezing his balls, rubbing the skin, and then one little finger pressed something _good_ just right behind them—  
  
His hips jerked off the bed too fast, his hand yanking a corner of the bedsheets off.  
  
He came into James’s mouth with a loud, “Oooooh.”  
  
James’s hands slipped away, then pressed his moving his hips down to the bed.  
  
Little whimpers and moans spilled out of Lars with each swallow James gave to his cock, his thighs flexing around James’s head, until his orgasm finished and he felt the good tingling sensation consume his relaxed body.  
  
James’s mouth slowly slid up and off.  
  
He moaned when cool air hit his wet dick.  
  
The hands let him go. His legs flopped onto the bed like dead weight, bouncing on impact.  
  
Slowly his hands uncurled in the sheets.  
  
Then James whispered, “Turn around.”  
  
His body listened for him, turning around, back onto his hands and knees. His head swam elsewhere, into a state of post-orgasmic nothingness, where the warmth and tingling sensations engulfed him whole, centered from his belly and spreading out elsewhere.  
  
The sound of that lube bottle snapping open didn’t startle him.  
  
This time, the fingers skipping over his hole felt good.  
  
This time, he breathed easier.  
  
He was relaxed. Well and truly relaxed.  
  
He stayed relaxed when the fingers pressed against his ass. One slipped in and fucked him slow, slow thrusts, until the minor burn subsided, and his hips moved with James.  
  
The burn returned when the finger slipped out and two pushed inside.  
  
His ass clenched down.  
  
James’s fingers stilled inside him.  
  
He squeezed around them. He took long breaths.  
  
The burn faded away with inhale and exhale.  
  
Lars whispered, “Please.”  
  
James’s fingers moved again. Slow thrusts. Scissoring here and there, stretching him out. Twisting on the thrust in. Twisting on the thrust out.  
  
His hips caught on like before, moving with the rhythm James made. Pressing down on the thrust in. Moving up with the thrust out. Driving James in him, knuckles-deep, making those fingers touch that spot inside him.  
  
The thrusts sped up.  
  
That burn returned too, building up at the pit of his belly.  
  
His spent cock twitched to life.  
  
The fingers slipped out.  
  
Lars groaned at the sudden loss, the empty feeling in his ass. He pushed his ass back, fingers clawing at the bedsheets again.  
  
He moaned, “Jaaaames.”  
  
The snap of a bottle opening.  
  
The _schlick schlick schlick_ of liquid on flesh.  
  
His eyes snapped open, staring at the wall.  
  
Hands on his hips. Pressure against his ass.  
  
Not the fingers.  
  
Not the dildo either.  
  
James squeezed his hips and pulled them back.  
  
That pressure pushed against him. Inside him. Stretched the ring of muscle.  
  
A little burn. Nothing horrible. Just… pressure. All that pressure, inside him.  
  
James. Inside him.  
  
James was inside him.  
  
James was _fucking inside him._  
  
Small thrusts again, like the fingers. Each push back in went a little deeper than the last. Each push forced “ _oh_ ” out of open mouth, past his dry lips.  
  
Then, hips pressed against his ass. James’s balls, against his ass.  
  
All of him. All the way in.  
  
He squeezed his ass around him.  
  
James moaned, “Mmm.” The hands on his hips slid up to his waist. “Yeaaah.”  
  
His insides seemed to pull with James’s thrust out.  
  
He whimpered, “ _Oh_ ,” when James thrust back in.  
  
James’s hands slid up further, up his sternum, and James’s chest followed, pressing against Lars’s back.  
  
Lips brushing Lars’s ear. Warm breath.  
  
“You like this. Don’t you Lars?”  
  
Lars groaned. James’s breathy, husky voice, whispering those words, just like his dream. _Exactly_ like his dream. And it was easy to believe this was a dream too, so he squeezed his cock around James, felt that cock in him, and his dick twitched at James’s choked groan, loud and clear.  
  
His cheek scraped the sheets, nodding yes.  
  
James’s hands slid back down to his hips.  
  
Slow thrusts again. The same rhythm as before. A rhythm Lars knew and followed easy.  
  
It felt good. Comfortable. He became accustomed to the push and pull. The burn turned into a good burn.  
  
On the next thrust, James’s cock rubbed that spot, and Lars groaned. Pleasure shot in all directions—up his belly to his chest, down his thighs to his knees—and he pushed back harder on the next thrust.  
  
James’s hands squeezed his hips hard.  
  
Lars mewled.  
  
Good pain. Good hurt.  
  
The rhythm sped up quick. His cock, hard again, swung between his spread legs. His hands pawed at the sheets, his hot, sweaty face turning and stuffing into the mattress.  
  
His muffled moans and whimpers mixed with James’s grunts and the squeaking bed.  
  
Pain from his hips, from his pulsing hands. Pleasure burning his insides, twitching his cock. Sweat and hard breaths, James’s hard breaths, James’s moans and one of James’s hands moved away from a hip, over his quivering stomach, down his pelvis— _oh fuck_ —right to his cock again. Fingers circling his cock.  
  
James stroking his cock, while he fucked him.  
  
Control slipped again.  
  
James’s chest covered his sweaty back again.  
  
James’s lips brushed his ear again.  
  
Lars released a muffled whimper.  
  
And James whispered, “Good boy.”  
  
His body erupted. The same nothingness from before consumed him again. Worse than before. A blanket of white washed over him. He heard his whimpers and mews, felt his throat turn raw, how his nose bruised and smudged and pressed painful into the mattress. How his body convulsed, his hands twitching and clawing and raking at the sheets for balance, for _something_ , and he found nothing. Nothing to anchor him down. And in that split second, in that blissful nothingness rushing through his body, he felt fear. It wasn’t ending. It wasn’t stopping. He had _no control_.  
  
Then James’s arms wrapped around his waist.  
  
James’s body pulled them to the side.  
  
James’s hands snatched up his wrists and held them tight.  
  
James had him. James controlled him.  
  
“Shh,” James whispered, and Lars listened. Lars obeyed.  
  
His shaking stopped first. His breathing tempered out second. He didn’t bother seeing. The lids felt a thousand pounds too heavy to open.  
  
Slowly, James’s hands released him.  
  
His arms flopped to the bed.  
  
He moaned as James pulled out, his ass clenching at the emptiness left behind.  
  
Weight left the bed.  
  
Movement in the room. Footsteps on carpet. Rustling of clothes.  
  
Fabric over his legs, pulled up to his waist.  
  
He realized it was the bedsheets when James’s hands tucked them around his waist, hips, and knees, cocooning his lower body.  
  
A hand touched his shoulder.  
  
Lips, again, on his ear.  
  
“Tomorrow,” James whispered. “My place. 2PM.”  
  
He gave a small, weak nod.  
  
James squeezed his shoulder.  
  
“Don’t be late.”  
  
A pat, and his hand slipped away.  
  
Footsteps retreating.  
  
 _Click_ , and the light beyond his lids shut off.  
  
He fell asleep to the sound of his bedroom door opening.


End file.
